


A needle and thread

by EmpirePlanet95



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Possessive Hannibal, Slow Burn, Wendigo!Hannibal - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:11:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2406386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpirePlanet95/pseuds/EmpirePlanet95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the doujin under the same title by SeniorPotato on deviant art. </p><p>The mansion had simply been one of the many shelters that housed him when he and his father had no where to go. An orphanage; a temporary haven; a vague two months of Will's childhood that was now nothing more than a left-behind memory. Years later, it's his home again, permanently this time. </p><p>Not because he didn't want to leave.</p><p>But because what he left behind won't let him.</p><p>Not again.</p><p>Or,</p><p>Will moves into an old, former orphanage that he and his father stayed at when he was a kid. He finds his old, imaginary 'friend who lives in the wall,' who isn't really all that imaginary.  </p><p>Hannibal AU. Hannibal/Will</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A needle and thread](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/76958) by SeniorPotato. 



> Hello, this fic is based on the doujin by SeniorPotato on deviant art! It's really good so check it out!

Will had been terrified the first time he cast eyes on the place. “An orphanage,” his father had called it. A place for children who had no place to go went to. 

_Why are we here then, dad? I’ve got you to go to, don’t I?_

_…you won't leave me here, will you?_

His father had laughed at his fears, soothing him that no, he wasn't going to leave Will here. That it was only a temporary arrangement. Just as soon as he got a job, they'd find someplace nicer: a place to call home just for the two of them.

 _Soon_ , he promised.

But whether they’d leave sooner than later did nothing to quell the boy’s fears. He could hear the laughter of witches in the creaking of the wood; the ghosts behind the gleam of the windows. Will didn't want to leave this place 'soon'. He didn’t want to enter it at all.

_Don’t worry, Will. Nothing bad is going to happen here._

And Will supposed, nothing bad did happen. He met a friend. Behind the wall where the whispers called to him, he met Hannibal. And for a good few months, he was happy.

But just as dad said,  _it was only temporary._

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0- 

Will squeezed himself into the crawl hole, ignoring the dirt that stuck to his pants. He needed to hurry, dad would be looking for him soon. They were leaving. _Today._ That gave Will no time at all to say goodbye.

And he needed to say it, Hannibal wouldn’t like it if he didn’t. Well, Hannibal wouldn’t be happy with him leaving at all but it was better than going without saying _anything._ Will couldn’t stand imagining Hannibal waiting for him to visit, never knowing that Will wouldn’t ever be coming again. It would be rude. And if their time together taught him anything, Will knew Hannibal didn’t like rude people very much. Rude people were  _bad._

The child burst through the other side of the tunnel to find his friend patiently wait for him. Calm and smiling as he always been.  It was almost just like any other day Will would visit. They’d talk, have fun, do things together that always left Will red and laughing. Then they’d tell each other ‘see you next time’  - never goodbye.

But not this time. Will was leaving. He was here to say goodbye.

“Will?” Hannibal inquired against the boy’s silence. “Will, you’ve been acting strange lately. Are you okay?”  He smiled again when Will reached up towards him, tugging his arm and gesturing for Hannibal to lean down. A small kiss of greeting, right on his lips. A show of affection that Will’s father had described as ‘a token to give only to those you love the most.’ However, Will pulled back much more quickly than usual, and Hannibal was silent, waiting for Will to act next. 

“Bye bye,” a murmur, almost silent on the boy’s lip. Then he was gone. But his voice echoed in the darkness, vibrations shaking through Hannibal’s being. 

 

Bye       Bye                Bye        By—

      Bye          Bye   Bye

 

“Will?” Hannibal lunged towards the crawl space where Will’s presence still warmed. “Will? Where are you going? Come back? Will?”

The shuffles of the boy were getting farther; more frantic with every drag of dirt against fabric. Faster. Will was trying to leave him faster. Hannibal could smell the child's fear - acrid and sour.

WILL? will? WILL?

WHY? 

Why—

—are you scared?

CoME BaCk. 

 

_(I won't hurt you.)_

 

COmE BACK.

NOW.

Come BAck hERe THiS InStaNT.

 

_(And I will forgive you.)_

 

Hannibal dove through the crawl space, following after the boy’s scent through the dirt. William was just ahead of him, just a little more and he could reach him. He could feel the boy's heat just metres away.

_click._

A lock. The door was locked. William shut him in.

 WiLLIam WhAT ArE You DOING? 

OPEN THE DOOR.

There was a shuffle of movement from beyond the wood.  _William?_ The volume of steps softened until it was gone. _No._  

DON’T. 

WILLIAM.

DON’T.

GO.

“WILLIAM DON’T LEAVE ME!!!!” A scream that shook the dust off the ceiling. A screech that no one but the two could hear. 

Hannibal scratched at the door - desperately - the wood scoring under his claws. He scraped harder, trying to get through the accursed exit. But it would not collapse. It would not give. He smashed his fist against it. Again and again and again and again. Screaming for William, _don’t leave me no no no no no noooo._ There was no answer to his screams. 

 But maybe William was still there, Hannibal thought. He extended his claws under the door space. Maybe he could touch him. His nails screeched against the polished wood. No William. He was --

\-- _gone._

Left him. Broke the promise that’d they be together. Forever and ever and ever.

No. It CAN’T Be.

 “Will?” A final inquiry. A hope, that even out of his reach, William would hear. He’d turn back and open the door again and Hannibal would grab the boy and never let go. No one would take his William away from him. Because Will was his. 

HIS. HANNIBAL’S. 

Will knew that. Will was a good boy.

That’s why he’d come back. He’d stay with Hannibal.

Hannibal scratched and clawed at the door.  

William never opened it.

 -0-0-0-0-0-0-

“Hey there, Will? Are you ready to go?”

William clung to his father’s leg, clutching the fabric like a lifeline. He felt himself lifted up as the adult’s face regarded him with concern. Tears were streaming down the boy’s face as Hannibal’s shouts and screams still echoed in his ears.

“C’mere, little man. Why are you crying?” 

The child sniffled, his grip on his father’s collar tightening. “Do we have to go dad?” A final ditch attempt to change his dad’s mind. So that maybe, maybe, just maybe he could go back to Hannibal.

“I got a job in another town, so we have to…” 

Will nodded, wiping his tears in his dad’s shirt. “Ok,” he murmurs. A defeated tone.

The boy snuggled closer to the adult’s body, taking in the warmth and trying to put Hannibal’s anger and despair away from his mind.  “How did your friend take the news - the one in the wall?”

“I think he hates me,” Will confides, voice soft as if saying it any louder would make the reality of it that much closer. 

“Aw, don’t say that sport. You’re too cute to hate,” is his father’s joking response. It’s a joke that only has Will sniffling harder. “Don’t worry, Will. He’ll forgive you for leaving. Maybe one day you’ll see him again."

Will snuggles even closer, throwing his arms around the whole of the man’s neck to keep himself steady as they left. He took a last glance at the house, its creaks and shadows still as foreboding as it was two months prior. Will ends the conversation with three words as his father’s feet leave the property. 

“I hope so,” he whispers.


	2. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will returns to the orphanage decades later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I need to warn you guys that most of this chapter is interaction between Will and Alana? Not romantic, don't worry, but still, yeah, warning. I tagged it.

 

Will was eleven years old when his school teacher had first recommended he see a psychiatrist. He was...incapable of integrating with the group, they had told his father. The way he spoke, thought, carried himself: it was too different. 

_Too wrong._

His father had spent the next day searching psychiatrists in the area that they could afford. Then, when there was none, he brought Will to the library. The entirety of the opening hours was spent with him on the opposite side of the children's section; Will with his books, and his father with own. After that, they had more 'talks' after dinner, though looking back, it was more verbal flailing than anything else. It ended with Will's dad finding higher paying job on the other side of the country that took night shifts; Will moved schools and they stopped talking.

There wasn't anymore time for 'family' anymore.

Those moments though may have been the reason Will had decided to take psychology at college. If not for them, perhaps he'd never had taken an interest in criminal psychology. Thus, never receiving the teaching position in Quantico, never meeting Jack, never seeing those crime scenes--

\--never _failing to save Abigail._

But he did. And now he was here: the middle of nowhere, standing in front of a house just short of falling apart. But this was the house he wanted.

Because once upon a time, William was happy here.

Long before he was able to comprehend that monsters lied in people and not under beds. Before his father's flaws became too much. Before his own had nearly broken him.

This place made his feel safe.  _Sound._

It was like a little boat on the ocean where all the nightmares drowned in the water.

 

-0-0-0-0-0-

 

“Alana? Are you going to help me unpack or not?” said Will, addressing the woman in the car as he lifted a box out the trunk. Alana had insisted on coming with him against all protests that _he was fine, he could do it on his own, he didn't need the company._

Honestly, the man wondered if the psychiatrist had chosen to come for his sake or her own: to sooth her concerns that Will didn't off himself the moment he was away from a professional eye. Still, the presence, despite him muttering the contrary, was appreciated. To have anything other than dead memories trailing behind and beside him was always welcome.

Alana huffed, carrying a box just past the threshold of the front door before dropping it atop another. She looked up, appraising the tall ceilings and spacious entry way. But, she wasn't smiling. Will wasn't expecting her too: she was against him buying the house anyways.

“Well,” Alana sighed. “It's spacious, I'll give you that Will, but are you sure this is the right place for you? It's rather...dark.”

Will let out a small scoff. He could tell that she was holding back, every word that she wanted to say was practically echoing from her and reverberating through the walls.

_Dismal. Sullen. Somber. Bleak._

_Just like him._

Alana's shoulders tensed, and she looked around with wide eyes. It was as if she expected a monster to appear from behind the boxes. She stayed close to Will though, back slightly to him, as though, if a monster _were_ to appear, she could protect him. Will knew she couldn't, she had tried, tried, and tried.

But he wouldn't have been here if she succeeded. 

But still, this was the reason Will appreciated her presence the most. Her concern was honest, not like the other psychiatrists that he'd seen. The way  _they_ had looked at him with 'professional interest' as they poked, prodded and asked:

_How does that make you feel?_

“Honestly, Will. Don't you find it a little creepy?”

Will glanced back at the woman, dropping his own box with a huff. “Not really. My father and I lived here once, when we had no where to go. It's not a bad place.”

“But it looks as though...” Alana looked around the room again. “Something from the walls will come out to get you.”

“Why, thanks Alana,” muttered Will, gruffly. “I'll keep that in mind when I try to sleep tonight.”

“Sorry, Will,” she replied. “It's just this place is...it's...” She swallowed. “Maybe we could get the realtor to find something else. It might not be too late.”

Will turned to Alana with a tired breath. “Why Alana? Because a place like this is counterproductive to my health? Too gloomy to have your approval?” He slipped a box cutter out of his back pocket, slicing open the top of the box he'd just dropped. If he did it with more force than necessary, then Alana didn't mention it; his t-shirts inside were fine anyways.

Will glanced back at her, waiting for the answer. He was sure his intonation was high enough to be a question, even if it was more because of the tenseness in his throat than anything else. Will could feel Alana's pity, her fear _for_ him, even without looking at her. As though living here, isolated like a lonely old hermit, was _bad._

“No, Will, that's not what I meant--”

“Then what, Alana?” he interjected. “It's an old house. Maybe there's asbestos in the walls, perhaps thats what your sixth sense is feeling; the poison seeping out of the drywall and wallpaper. If I get cancer ten years down the line, I'll make sure to let you know so you could tell me I told you so.”

“Will, calm down. That's not what I--”

“Maybe it'll be better if I bunked with Jack, hm? He'd probably say yes, what with the convenience of having his greatest asset so close at hand. I'll be sure to bark for him whenever he beckons for me!” Will threw the cutter down, hearing the plastic clatter loudly. It felt good to let the frustration out for once. “Perhaps he'll even give me a _treat.”_

_“Will!!”_

Will breathed, flinching slightly as he registered Alana's closeness to him; her hand was on his shoulder. She was telling him _to calm down, take deep breaths, it's okay, it's okay, I'm sorry._

_I'm so sorry._

Who muttered the last part, he wondered.

“I'm fine,” Will murmured. “I'm fine, I'm okay Alana; let's just get these boxes in before dark.”

Alana stepped away from him, no longer able to look him in the eye. “It's just that..with everything that happened _._ I wanted to make sure you're okay.”

“I said _I'm fine,_ Alana.” insisted Will. He turned away from her, about to head out the door again for another box. But of course, psychiatrists always had to have the last word.

“It wasn't your fault, Will.” Alana declared. “There was nothing you could have done to save that girl.. _.Abigail_. You couldn't have known that that would happen. ”

 _But I did,_ Will wanted to confess. _I knew. Suspected._

He grit his teeth, and walked forward. Every blink at the sun dyed his eyelids red. “So what, Alana? I can't work for the FBI. My mind's blinded; it can't take looking anymore.”

His mind had shattered. Weakened. It could no longer take how every crime scene he saw that revealed to him how the victim begged its killer to spare them gave him Abigail.

Gave him the image of how Abigail had--

\-- _looked at him._

_Begged to him._

_Cried for him as her words bled out on the ground._

_Mocked him with the red smile on her neck._

He grit his teeth, stomping towards his car and digging into it for another box. Alana paralleled his actions, following him back into the house with her own box.

“But, Will,” she whispered. “Why move all the way here? Away from everything and everyone? The nearest town is hours away.”

“I need a fresh start, Alana,” responded Will, stepping through the door. “The dead won't follow me inside here.”

Alana's nodded, her expression down trodden and chastised. It makes Will feel guilty; as if _he_ was the criminal, the one wrong in telling her how he'd felt. Will turned away.

“And if I didn't move, Jack wouldn't stop bugging me with his cases.”

Alana chuckled nervously with a murmured, “you have a point.”

Will considered the chuckle a small victory. The atmosphere had brightened considerably and he could _breath._

Alana bent over to drop her box down beside William's lightly.

“Well, that's the last box,” observed Alana. She stood up to look at William.

“Call me, if you need anything. I'll come right over.” She laughed, trying to lighten the atmosphere of goodbye. “Even if you do live in a creepy house hours away.”

Will waved her away. “It's late Alana, I'm fine so just go home. “

“Goodbye, Will.”

The door shut softly, leaving Will alone in the entryway surrounded by boxes. A small patter of feet signalled the entrance of Winston; the dog immediately made himself underfoot and snuffed at his owner.

“Hey, Winston,” Will greeted. “Done exploring? How was it? Nice?”

The dog barked and Will laughed. “Well, you're right, buddy. It's certainly big enough.”

His gaze found the hallway to the main rooms of the house. “This used to be an orphanage, though it doesn't really looked like it's for kids,” mused Will. He looked down at Winston. “Wanna be my tour guide, Winston?”

The dog barked again and Will smiled. “Thanks, boy,”

Will walked down the hall, appreciating the mix of colour as Winston followed at his heels.It was a mix of red, brown, and off-white, exuding a sense of warmth and coolness: of home. At the sight kitchen he guessed the place had been renovated recently - the woodstain being free of markings and scuffs. As well, the utilities seemed modern enough taking into account how old the house was. The bedroom already had a bed, though the sheets smelled a little dated: a quick change would be easy enough.

“Everything looks different now,” Will told Winston. “I don't recognize anything anymore...”

Winston petted himself under Will's hand, freezing and whining when they came across the living room. It was grand space, the architecture hinting that perhaps it was once a small ball room or agrand sitting room. Both the carpet and wallpaper were slightly off-colour with the drywall framing.

Perhaps, Will thought, it was placed down against the original floor plans. Maybe the orphanage changed it to be more suitable for kids. William recognized it. He used to play here, drawing pictures on the floor, reading on the couch and hiding behind it.

“At least this looks familiar,” he told himself in relief. “It's good to see it hasn't change much...”

With this, it finally felt like home.

Winston bumped his nose against William's palm, the volume of his whining getting louder as they approached the living room.

“Hey, bud, what's wrong?” asked William offhandedly as he spotted a small door off on the bottom of a side wall. It almost looked like a cupboard, and Will would probably have believed it was if not for it's odd location. If it really was a sitting room, then it would have been unsightly: unsuitable and out of place. Smack in the middle of where guests could easily see it.

William approached it. Winston whined.

“I think I remember this.” William blinked, running a hand against the old wood. Even though the majority of the paint had flaked off, there was enough to know that the colour had been the opposite of every door in the house: black. A splinter came off on his finger and Will's flinched, rubbing the wood away on his jeans.

“Yeah,” he confirmed softly after a short search of his distant memories. “I used to play here.”

He stood up, not bothering to brush the dust off his jeans as he looked around the room again. If he remembered correctly, he'd left a box of keys by the door. The man turned back to see if it was indeed there, noting that his dog was pawing against the carpet just an inch away from the door's threshold.

“Winston?”

The dog barked, high and afraid. He pawed the carpet harder, as if trying to gesture Will to his side of the door.

“Oh, you don't like the room? Does it smell too dusty?”

Will gave the air a sniff. It seemed fine, but for a dog...

“I'll be over there in a bit. Just give me a second,” he told Winston. He carried a small cardboard giftbox away from the exit, staggering a bit from the surprising weight before heading back to the small door. There was a bit of water stain at the bottom, and it sagged deeply.

“Let's see what's behind door number one...” joked Will with himself, prying open the lid of the box. The cardboard folded backwards as it came off.

“What the hell?”

The box was piled to the brim with keys, both old and new with a mix of bronze, silver, and gold. That explained the weight, but still; there was an inch and a half between the top of the pile to the bottom. It was a surprise the box hadn't broken.

William cursed, wondering why there were so many. The number of doors in the house didn't match, even if he counted the cupboards. And not all of them had locks. 

William looked back at the door, inspecting the handle. It was a little rusted, the metal clouded and dark with dust, dirt and age; he could barely tell if it was gold or bronze.But, if the key matched as it should, then he could diminish how many he needed to try. He dumped the box onto the ground, separating the new ones from the old, the silver from the bronze and gold.

There were seven choices left by the end. Will tried the first.

It didn't work.

The second.

A failure.

The third.

Another defeat.

The fourth.

Will stared at the key in his hand, finding it slightly heavier than the others. It was more dated too. He brushed a bit of grime off of the key, wondering at the tiny feeling of nostalgia at the back of his mind when he looked at it.

He gave it a try.

_Click._

The door creaked open, the hinges so rusted shut that Will had to pry it open bit by bit. He grunted as he pulled it away from the wall, incapable of keeping away a bit of excitement.

_What was behind the door?_

He almost joked that perhaps he'd find Narnia, but of course, that was ridiculous. He was Will Graham, and Will Graham never found happiness in the form of fantasies and distant lands. Because that was simply how his life worked.

All he had was nightmares. Nightmares and--

\---nothing.

A brick wall.

Will let his fingers fall off the door knob, breathing out in disappointment.

Of course there'd be nothing.

He ran his fingers along the cement between the brick; dust sprinkled off. “I could have sworn that there was something here...”

_A dark tunnel._

_A smiling face._

_An outreached hand._

“Maybe they blocked it off?” Will let out another sigh, closing the door and leaving in the key. He hefted himself up, returning to where Winston was - still in the hallway, looking in. The dog had laid himself down, watching William with trepidation. He had jumped up excitedly though when his master approached.

“Hey, boy, time to go.” Will petted the dog, his fingers getting licked in the process. “Almost time for bed...”

Will returned to the hallway and into the front entranceway to dig into some boxes. He lugged out a can of dogfood and a bowl, putting it down for Winston. For himself, he found a can of tuna and a fork; Will sat himself down by the wall and ate his menial dinner, it wasn't much, but for now it was all his stomach could handle.

If things went as planned, maybe in a week, he'd be better. Maybe then, he'd be able to sit at a table and eat without thinking about how Garett Jacob Hobbs had eaten those girls.

Devoured them

 _Honoured_ them.

With Abigail smiling across from him.

None the wiser.

Innocent, sweet Abigail. Bloody, dead Abigail.

Will tasted bile at the back of his throat. The tuna, juicy and meaty in the can almost seemed red in the dim light. He put the can down.

There was still half left.

But that was okay: Winston must be hungry from the move. A treat wouldn't hurt. He pushed the can towards the dog, his head flopping to his shoulder as he watched Winston pounce without hesitation at the proffered meal. 

“Maybe, if I just go to bed...” Will murmured, resting his head against the drywall. He was exhausted. Completely and utterly drained.

The man closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the house settling, of it rattling in the wind. 

_Wehhh..._

_…...ehhh..lll...._

_haaaaa....Aah....._

_eeeeeeehhhhmm......_

The sound would have lulled him to sleep if not for Winston licking his palm for more tuna. Will chuckled lightly, getting up to throw the can away.

He missed the house's last echo.

_Will......?_

_…..WiLLiam?_

 

 

_You're HERE.....?_

 

 

_…...You're BACK?_

 

.

.

.

. 

_(WeLCOmE HOmE)_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, it's been a long time. I haven't been writing for a while except for school papers (I wrote one on Cannibalism and got an A- yaaayyy) so I hope it's not to rusty; it it is, I'm sorry. Feel free to leave writing critiques on grammar, characterization (I haven't watched Hannibal for a long time, so please please please tell me if they're OOC, I'm so out of touch!! At least until third season lol) and anything that bothers you, I'll do my best to respond to all comments! And I actually can, cause after Tuesday next week I'm on holiday for like two weeks before spring sem classes. I went on dA after like forever and found out there's like a whole bunch of updates for the dj by SeniorPotato, so I'll be able to update the next bit easily. Link is in the fic summary,so go check it out!
> 
> Sorry if this chapter is a bit more slow moving, with lack of Hannigram. It won't be for long though.


	3. Morning light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will sleeps.

On some nights, Will Graham prayed.

It wasn't as though he was religious; he wasn't. But a person didn't really need to be to recite a simple four lines in solemn request. Plus to him, it was more a ritual born of habit than anything else.

He was thirteen when he first learned to pray. A nun from what his father called an 'overnight drop-in centre' taught him.

It was a nice place. Even if he found out that most people in school called it a 'homeless shelter.'

People were kind to him there. Understanding. They didn't judge him nor his father when they find out about the pair’s bi-monthly, state-jumping life style. They didn’t try to take Will away even when they discovered that his dad couldn't even afford the lowest motel rate in Louisiana. Instead, the nun had smiled and patted his head; she tucked him in, and taught him words that were meant to protect him so that his father would have a 'home to return to.'

Even after his father's death, Will still murmured the same four lines as he closed his eyes for bed. Because by then, it was the only sense of stability he had left.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Will stared past his reflection in the mirror, mindlessly scrubbing his teeth. He blinked. The greying visage of Garett Jacob Hobbs regarded him carefully, his head tilted to the side as he looked through the mirror with milky eyes. He smiled, his teeth stained red and brown with stagnant blood.

Will blinked again.

Elliot Buddish with his lungs spread out like wings behind him stared back.

Again.

Eldon Stammets. _Blink._ Tobias Budge. _Blink_. Clark Ingram.

William spat out the tooth paste, staring diligently at the porcelain sink as he grappled for his cup. White foam drained slowly, spreading specks of red into lines from when he'd brushed his gums too hard. He rinsed out his mouth and looked up.

Abigail smiled at him.

He rinsed out his mouth again, just to remove the bitter taste of bile from his throat. And again, when the acid burn stubbornly refused to disappear. Winston whined from underfoot.

“I'm fine, Winston,” Will muttered, giving the dog's head a pat as he threw his toothbrush into his cup. “It's just the usual. You know how it is.” He stepped past his pet, making his way to the bed.

The newly changed white sheets were tucked tightly into the mattress – any looser and Will knew they would come undone after a night of thrashing.

“Winston, c'mon, bed-time.” Will ushered the dog to the bed with no qualms of the pet hair already attaching themselves to the fabric. Winston immediately made himself comfortable at the foot of the bed, curling up and waiting for his master to do the same. Will did, giving the dog one last pat on the head before he slipped under the safety of white sheets.

Once, Alana had recommended that perhaps, he should buy black ones – just for the sake of them being easier to clean. Vomit and sweat didn't stain as easy on black. He'd considered it. But that was all he did. He'd imagined cocooning himself into darkness – the same gloom that he entered in his sleep.

The thought was inconsolable.

Thus, Will positioned his head on a scratchy, feather filled pillow. He closed his eyes and, under his breath, muttered four lines long taught to him:

“Now I lay me down to sleep --”

Will sighed, adjusting his feet under the comforter. He knew it might be easier if he prayed in the conventional way at the end of the bed. But, it didn't really matter to him. And he was tired.

Still, Winston whined his discontent at being prodded by his owner's feet.

“--I pray the Lord my soul to keep--”

Will turned to his side, trying to find a comfortable position.

He could already feel the words lulling him to sleep. The words never changed, no matter who died, or who was born: they were the archetype of stability.

Will shrugged his shoulders, bringing the sheets closer to his chin.

“--the angels watch me through the night--”

The darkness crept out from the back of Will's mind.

“--and keep me safe til morning light.”

And he slept.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Will woke up disoriented. The light from the window was blinding, painting the entirety of the room monochrome white. He blinked the sleep away, looking around; the air was frozen. Nothing moved.

Winston was still sleeping at the foot of the bed, his fur still and pointed. Will reached for his dog with small hands, wondering why Winston was farther away than he last remembered.

“Winston?” said Will. “Wake up.”

The dog didn't stir.

“Winston?” Will repeated. “Wake up.”

Winston didn't wake.

“C'mon. Hannibal's gonna be mad if we're late for breakfast.”

Will nudged Winston again. “I'm gonna leave if you don't wake up.”

The dog didn't even breath. So, Will kicked out of the blankets, crawling to the edge of the bed just to climb off. He trotted to the bathroom, pushing the step stool next to the sink so he could reach the counter. He splashed water on his face, rubbing at the smooth skin around his chin and eyes. Next, Will grabbed his toothbrush, scrubbing at his teeth. He looked up at the mirror.

There was no reflection. Just the whiteness of the painted door and drywall behind him. But that didn't really matter. First priority was to get clean.

Cause a dirty guest at the breakfast table was just as rude as an absent one.

Hannibal told him. Hannibal was his best friend. Hannibal knew best.

Will jumped down from the step stool, walking through the still blinding white landscape of the bedroom.

“Winston,” he said. “I'm gonna wake dad up now. They're not gonna leave out kibble if you don't come out.”

Will exited. There was no click of nails following behind. “Winston!”

Not even a ruffle of fur.

“Hannibal's gonna get mad,” Will muttered from the door. He turned into the hallway. It stretched out like a highway: long, narrow, and boxed in by smooth, blank white walls. There was a small, black door to the right, just a minutes pace away. Its bronze door knob gleamed even from the distance.

Will padded over to it. He knocked. “Dad? Breakfast time.”

No one opened the door.

“Is _everyone_ still sleeping?” Will murmured to himself, exasperated. “Hannibal's gonna be _really_ mad.”

He glanced up at the clock that appeared above the doorway. 7:26. Twenty-six minutes late.

_“_ Hannibal's gonna be _really really_ mad.”

Will turned the knob to his dad's bedroom. “I'm coming in dad,” he announced, just to be polite. The door swung open and Will entered. It was empty but for a single, queen sized bed marring the pure, detail-less space. The bed was built with a black wooden frame, polished and smooth – identical to door. Its corner posts stood tall, sharp and pointed. However, Will's attention was drawn to the stag's head carved into the headboard. Glossy black eyes greeted him.

Look, they whispered. _Look._

The stag's horns extended the surface of the bed, curving downward and almost encapsulating a still figure draped by crisp, white sheets. The sheets were loose, spilling over the sides of the bed. An image of a small, stainless steel table paired with the putrid scent of iron, latex, and antiseptic appeared in Will's mind. It was gone before he could begin to wonder. So instead, he approached the bed.

Long brown hair escaped from the top of the sheets, strewn out as if on water. Will guessed from that, and the curvature of the body, that it was a girl. She must be sleeping, he thought.

“Excuse me, miss?” Will addressed. “Have you seen my dad? He's late for breakfast.”

The still figure did not respond. So Will stepped closer.

“Miss? Are you awake?"

He stopped at the side of the bed. The sheet was tucked up high over the girl's forehead. Will peeled it down, tucking it lightly under the girl's chin. Her eyes were closed, skin pale and bloodless.

“Miss? Sorry to bother you, but have you seen my dad?” Will asked again.

The girl blinked up at him, her blue eyes stark against sallow skin and deep brown hair. She stared.

“You can join us for breakfast, if you want,” Will offered. “I don't think Hannibal would mind.”

“It's too late,” the girl whispered, her voice a low, gritty rasp. Will wondered if she was sick. Maybe, that's why his dad lent her his bed.

“Too late?” Will tilted his head, a moment of understanding coming over him. Well, he thought, they _were_ half an hour late for breakfast. So Hannibal would have finished cooking by now: a portion of three for Will, dad, and him. But then, Hannibal always made extra. 'Cause Will was a growing boy, so he needed to eat more. More meat, Hannibal said. So it wouldn't be a problem if there was one more person. Will told her so.

The girl blinked at him again. Then she sat up, the sheets falling from her form. A simple, tawny-brown colored shirt paired with black denim.

Will frowned, noticing that the girl had gone to bed without changing into nightclothes. Hannibal always told him he shouldn't do that. The boy almost mentioned it to his guest, but he froze when he saw the girl's expression.

Her mouth was downturned, yet she smiled from the red line on her neck.

“You came in too late. _Too late, too late, too late."_

Her body rose from the bed in a single swift motion; she edged closer to the boy. Smiling, still smiling, always smiling.

Will gasped, taking a step back. Blood seeped from the wound on the girl's neck, staining the sheets crimson. It dripped down to the floor, the colour staining and spreading like a disease. Every step away brought the scarlet blight closer; it encroached everything, veinlike.

The girl loomed over Will. Her shadow spread through the room, dying the entire landscape black.

Even the blood. Especially, the blood.

You could have saved me,” she whispered, sticky black-stained saliva burbling at the corner of her lips. _“You didn't. Too late. Always too late.”_

Will whimpered. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be. Winston wouldn't wake up! I told him we'd be late.”

The excuse sounded wrong to his ears. He stumbled away, backwards.

Blood pooled around Will's feet. It seeped into his socks and every backward step he took came away sticky with thick black tar. His feet were numb with weight. He could feel the girl's closeness but there was no heat. _She was so cold._

“Why?” she asked him, her voice cracking, desperate for answers. It hurt Will's ears to hear. And her breath was sour: acrid and dead.

So he shut his eyes tightly, turning his face away and clasping his hands over his ears. But the whispers echoed louder.

_Why didn't you come sooner?_

_Why didn't you see?_

_Why didn't you save me?_

_Why? Why?_

_Why_ _WHY_ _why_ _WHY_ _why?_

_WHY?_

Will shook his head violently, the words vibrating through his head despite his best efforts to shut them away.

“I don't know!” he shouted, his voice just a tone below a scream. “I don't know. I'm sorry. _I'M SORRY_!”

_Liar._

The girl tilted his head at him. Looked at him. Sneered at him _. Mocking, judging –_

_Accusing._

Will turned, his arms falling from his ears as he ran for the door. There was only darkness in his line of sight, but he kept running.

_Liar._

And running.

_LIAR._

Faster.

Into darkness. Cold, insidious, darkness.

_(My poor, sweet, William)_

He fell.

He was caught.

By shadows.

_(I have you.)_

William whimpered, shaking in the grip of shadows. It enfolded him, embraced him as it crept across his skin and into his pores. He couldn't move. He couldn't breath.

Hot breath on his ear. Cold fingers trailing along cheeks.

_(How lost you've become without me.)_

The shadow nosed at his neck, breathing in William's scent as it squeezed him tighter. William was sinking. Drowning. He sobbed. He wanted to scream. _Stop it stop it stop it let me go._

_(Don't worry.)_

Will struggled, but every move spread the gloom around him. He couldn't even see his hands reaching out anymore.

_(I'm here now.)_

The dark oozed into his nose, his mouth, his eyes.It gripped his heart.

_(And I won't let you go.)_

_-0-0-0-0-0-_

Will woke up disoriented. Black spotted his vision and he couldn't see the light from the window, if there was any at all. The sheets stuck to his skin, wet and cold.

_(I'll take care of you now, William)_

Will vomited bile and stomach acid onto the empty side of the bed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, cringing as he stared at the mess by his side. At least, he thought, it was easier to clean than the carpet.

From the foot of the bed, Winston barked.

Will stood up from the bed, dragging himself into the bathroom. In the mirror, the eyes of his reflection stared back at him, red and swollen. His beard couldn't even hide how sunken his cheeks had become.

_Why?_ his reflection asked. _Why?_

Will splashed water on his face, unable to answer. He didn't know. There were too many endings to that question. Too many answers.

Will let the water drip off his face. The cold felt good despite the sweat chills that racked his body. He let out a sigh of relief, rubbing his temple in an attempt to keep the head aches away

_(Poor, pitiful boy. Let me help you)_

He closed his eyes, shuddering as the memories of his nightmare came back to him.

The stillness. The darkness. Abigail. ~~Hannibal~~

Will grimaced, pain stabbing at his temple. One thing, he was missing one thing. Will squeezed his eyes as he tried to remember.

~~Hannib~~

He cradled his head; the pain throbbed.

~~Hann~~

His headache intensified and Will flinched.

~~H...~~ ~~a...~~

.

.

.

Will shook his head, groaning when it only exacerbated the pain. He stepped back into the bedroom, in search for the bottle of aspirin he'd kept in yesterday's jeans. The thought of the dream was shoved to the back of his mind; there was no point in digging through nightmares when he already had enough on the surface.

“Winston, wake up,” he said, peeking at the dog who'd gone back to sleep in the five minutes he'd spent in the bathroom. He went to check on his phone by the bedside table. 7:31. “It's breakfast time.”

Will nudged the dog off the bed, ushering him towards the exit. He glanced at the window as he left through the door.

Morning light bled through the curtains.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Will can't hear Hannibal when he's awake. Anyways, guys, thanks so much for all the kudos and comments. You all probably hear this from every author but those are like the most motivating things ever to receive. So, thank you!  
> Well, a lot of people mentioned how this fic is giving out Coraline vibes, righty-o, SeniorPotato's doujinshi is a Coraline cross-over so as  
> I'll always say, go check that out! (It's awesome and link is in the summary)  
> For the prayer thing, hopefully my use of it didn't offend anyone. But, to be on the safe side, I apologize if it did. If you were confused about the wording, there's actually a lot of versions of the prayer; I chose the one that suited the fic's purposes most.  
> But yeah, what do you guys think about my attempt at writing almost horror stuff? Nay or Yay? 'Cause my experience in it is basically reading Silence of the Lambs and Coraline. Like, was there too much detail? Not enough? Any grammar mistakes? Be honest, please?
> 
> Btw, did anyone notice the significance of the time in the fic? (Hint: considering that Will was eight years old when he first met/left Hannibal) Kudos if you did!  
> One last thing lol, on the next update: I'm taking a spring class starting next week, so updates might be a little slower when that starts. But I'll still write during the classes! Plus It's a six-week class then vacation time so I promise that I won't disappear for like five months as I did between chapter one and two. 
> 
> Btw, I'm on **[Tumblr](http://empireplanet95.tumblr.com/)**


	4. Bad Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks later...

When Will was fifteen, he bashed a kid’s nose on the side of a urinal. It was the principal’s son, two years his senior; a boy not much bigger than himself, but with a mouth brimming with bad teeth and repugnant words. Words that said Will’s dad was a useless sonovabitch.  And words that spat how Will’s mother left him because she knew… _she knew that he’d end up the same gloomy, washed-up imbecile his dad was._

With the addition of being bat-shit insane. 

So Will slammed his face on the edge of a urinal. One, twice, and thrice just to loosen the teeth in the boy’s mouth. He almost stuck it in the actual urinal, just so it’d be just as disgusting as his words. But the boy begged him. Twisted his neck just so his mouth could spit out a ‘please stop, it hurts.’

And their eyes met. 

And Will was sorry. He was _so_ _sorry sorry sorry._ Sorry for being a bully. Sorry he was failing math and his mom was constantly pissed. Sorry that his parents were divorcing. And he was tired. Tired and angry and in so much pain. 

So Will let the boy go; he let him sob on the dirty, discoloured tiles. But then that boy cried to his mother. And Will was expelled. Then his dad was fired from his job as the night custodian of the same school.

And Will wasn’t sorry anymore.

So he went back to the school to bid one last goodbye to that boy. In a way just as dirty, just as _repulsive_ as his words and mouth and the urinal that Will smashed them against. But his dad gripped his arm, _slapped his face,_ and swore at him for the first time. “You’d better not go there, son,” he said. “Don’t get the bad blood going before you’ve even got your first girl.”

He crouched down, and steadily stared Will in the eye despite his son’s strong aversions to eye contact.Then he told him never to beat someone up like that again. Made Will promise and nod until his head throbbed.

“Because bad blood will follow you, Will. It’ll stick to you like glue until you die.” 

 

-0-0-0-0-0-

 

“So that’s what this is? Bad blood and karma?” Abigail muttered, playing with her spoon and tapping at the blue porcelain bowl in front of her. The kitchen was dark. Its only source of light came from the slit between the curtains and its shimmering reflection on loose layers of dust atop the counters. Will sat on one side of his two-person kitchen table, his shoulders and head drooped as he stared into a bowl of soggy cornflakes andexpired milk.

It’d been two weeks since Will had moved in and life was hardly better than when he first arrived. Boxes still littered the halls and piled in the kitchen. The only difference was that his fridge was working. And the boxes of food that Jack and Alana gave him as reluctant moving gifts were almost empty. So was Brian and Zeller’s homemade, (patented?) dog food that Will didn’t trust enough to give to Wilson until a racoon gorged some and returned alive for more the next day.Beverly gave him a gun (for all the shit that goes on outside of the city, she said).

But it couldn’t keep away the ghosts and nightmares. 

“It does sound _karmic,”_ Abigail observed. “You killed me so now you’re talking to my ghost in a dark room.

Will shoved cornflakes into his mouth, letting some milk drip off his beard. He hadn’t shaved in five days. No motivation. Not with Hobbs staring at him through the  mirror. It was so stupid.

_Stupid. Ludicrous, foolish, idiotic._ That he’d ever believed that the ghosts wouldn’t follow him here. In the middle of no where, in the isolation and darkness…it was a place that practically _bred_ monsters.

And with each passing night, the nightmares worsened. Every morning he’d wake up feeling as though someone was standing over his bed, breathing him in and watching _close enough to feel him breathe_ as he shook and seized in his sleep. Sometimes, when he jolted out of bed before his body knew it was awake, he’d see a shadow crawl out of his bedroom door. It’d be ajar every morning, even though he knew, _he knew_ , that he closed it. 

Red eyes and antlers, a compact body (small enough to crawl through the walls, big enough to fit through a cupboard), and a whispered morning greeting that had him afraid of every half-open door. The first week, he didn’t hear a thing. Then it began as a hardly audible murmur. And then louder, and louder. Clearer. 

_(Good morning, Will.)_

Will convinced himself he was still dreaming.

And then there were the hallucinations - god, he hoped they were hallucinations. They increased. Now, Garett Jacob Hobbs smiled from every bathroom mirror. Tobias Budge from every hall. And Eldon Stammets laid lifeless in the corner of every room. 

And Abigail. Abigail was everywhere.

“You’re not a ghost,” Will gritted out, choking down his cereal. His throat was tight, his eyes heated and heavy. “You’re a hallucination. It’s stress. It’s lack of sleep. _It’ll go away.”_ He raised his head to stare at the dead image, his chest heaving. His cheeks were hot as he pursed his lips in defiance of the dead image; he rubbed at his face.

“I don’t think I’m gonna go away. I like it here.,” Abigail sighed, resting her head into one of her hands. It made the wound on her neck gape wider and twist into a crooked smile. Will averted his eyes to stare at the closest wall - at the grey-blue wallpaper with a pattern of repeating, white fleurs-de-lis print. The images wavered as his attention bored into them, melting into the dull colour behind.“Plus my blood’s gone bad, hasn’t it? Literally, I mean. Being dead, and all.”

Abigail’s voice was followed by the sound of dripping of liquid onto porcelain. Hereyes had drained of colour, a white film clouding her once lively blue. The wound on her neck festered at the edges, baring yellowed teeth as it once again mocked him for his inability to save. Her blood was spilling into the bowl, turning brown and black as it pooled.

See? _Stagnant._ ” Abigail murmured. “It’s kinda gross. It’s all coagulated and sticky. Like your dad said: glue. So you’re stuck with me. ” 

She smiled at him, her eyes draining of emotion to match the deadness of her body. “It’s all gone bad” the corpse said, tilting her head. The blood trailed down her hair, spilling onto the wooden table and staining it black as it seeped in. Will focussed harder on the wallpaper, ignoring the sounds of scratching as Abigail climbed onto the table and crawl towards him. The wallpaper was just a grey mirage now. And Abigail’s breath was against his ear, cold and wet. The smell of rotting flesh and iron wafted under Will’s nose. 

“And you’re stuck with my dad too; say hi to him for me, will you?”

Abigail tapped his forehead with a crooked nail. “All that blood’s stuck ‘round your brain now. And it’s rotting and rotting and rotting. Isn’t it, Will?”

Will squeezed his eyes shut and let out a staggering breath. He willed and prayed for Abigail to leave, for her to disappear once his eyes opened. But even behind the blackness of his eyelids, he could still feel her presence. Dark, thick and dead.

“But there’s one more, Will,” the dead girl whispered. “One more piece of blood you let sit for a long time. You have to pay the due for that, Will.”

Will’s hands crawled towards his ears, sweat and tepid heat sticking to his palms. But Abigail’s voice still broke through, echoing around his head. And she murmured softly by his hand. “Have to pay it, Will. Or he won’t let you leave.”

 

-0-0-0-0-0-

 

Will shuddered, opening his eyes to see the dust float along a ray of light above the chair. A drop of sweat fell from his forehead and into his cereal; he almost took another bite, but the heavy weight in his head and stomach protested. So it went into the garbage alongside last night’s meal: Campbell’s hearty clam chowder. Extra thick. It kept the bowl’s shape even in the bin.  

Winston pattered into the kitchen to take a whiff of the toss-out, but his master shut the lid before he could stick his head in. 

“Winston, I’m going to be okay, aren’t I?” Will asked his pet. Another piece of sweat trailed his face. He wiped it, feeling the heat of his face on the back of his hand. “I probably just have the flu. Maybe I need some air.” Will inhaled deeply, retching when the light illuminated a stream of dust into his nose. 

“Outside. _Outside,”_ he grumbled. “Fresh air. Out of the house.” _Away from Abigail._

Will staggered towards the kitchen exit, holding onto the frame as he tilted towards it faster than expected.

_Lack of sleep,_ he told himself as he gripped the frame tightly and cursed his lack of coordination. _It’s the lack of sleep.”_

And he continued on towards the outside. 

Winston barked after him. But he waved the dog away as headed to the exit. He didn’t mind that he was still in a pair of t-shirts and shorts; he didn’t mind that they were soaked in cold sweat. It was hot. He was burning. And outside was cold. It made sense. 

_And maybe the ghosts wouldn’t follow him there._

Winston trailed behind him as Will stumbled out of the front door. It clattered, banging into the door stop with an echoing shake. His body rocked, and all he saw was green. Then blue. Green grass. Blue sky. _Green blue green blue._ Green-blue.  Just like the ocean.

Will smiled to himself. Just like floating across the ocean, drifting where nothing could touch you. Fresh water. Free air. He qclosed his eyes, letting the calm drift over him.

_(William, where are you going?)_

Will forced heavy eyelids open and stared at the rocky dirt and overgrown weeds at his feet. He swallowed. He bit his lip. He rattled his head violently, as if to shake the darkness out of his head. 

_(You’re not leaving again, are you?)_

Will gripped his head to hold it steady. He took a staggered step forward, towards more grass and more dirt. He mumbled, the action being little more than minuscule twitches of his lips: _Outside. Gotta go outside. Fresh water. Free air. Free free free._

Clouds were beginning to take the skyline slowly, but Will was sure that they’d overcast his home before it hit mid-day. Trees blocked off the horizon on all sides in front of him, caging him in. Stranding him on the water with a ship filled with revenants and regrets. 

_(You’re not leaving, William. YOU ARE NOT.)_

Will fell to his knees.

_“_ Not real,” he muttered. “Not real, it’s not real. You’re tired.”

(I forbid it.)

Will lurched forward, pressing his forehead against the cool earth. He whimpered, then coughed as he took in wet breaths of sand and dirt. 

He wanted to sleep. Sleep without nightmares, sleep without ghosts and ghouls inside his bed and beside it.

But he couldn’t. He was stupid to think that moving out of Baltimore would keep them away. They were inside his house, inside his head. And they weren’t —

(you are not. NOT— )

—leaving.

 

-0-0-0-0-0-

 

Wilson crawled by Will’s side, butting the side of his master’s cheek. Then he stretched out on the ground, facing towards the house,hardly an inch from the man. He urged Will to fall out of his crouch, nudging him until the man fell slowly to rest his head on his fur. 

When the shakes and shudders subsided, replaced by small sleepy twitches. Winston raised his head to stare at the top window of his master’s house. He growled softly, mindful of his resting human. Because there, at the top window, looking down was the silhouette of a man. Red eyes and antlers. Broad shoulders and a tall, shapely figure. 

Will’s bed was behind him. 

 

-0-0-0-0-0-

 

Will woke up to a violent shake of his shoulders and a call of his name. He was cold. It was dark. He was hot. It was bright. His eyes hurt when he tried to force them open even a sliver.

“Will, what are you doing, sleeping out here?!”

A voice. Female. Soft. Alana? Was it Alana? _What was she doing here?_

Will croaked a set of unintelligible words, allowing himself to be hefted up by his arms. There was a grunt of effort, and he felt his legs drag against grains of dirt. 

“Will, help me out here. You’re heavy!”

He sluggishly pumped strength into his legs, trying to gain balance. Winston didn’t help, growling andpullinghim towards the opposite direction by the hem of his shirt. A sharp hush and quick rebuke had Will lurching forward once more. Winston was whining in the background. Will moaned; It hurt his ears. Everything was hurting his ears.

“Will, you have a fever!”

Will felt his body being yanked, inch by inch, across grass and dirt. Sometimes the motion would force his eyelids apart, and he’d whimper from the pain. He tried to squeeze every modicum of light from his sight, but even _that_ was too much of an effort.

“C’mon, let’s get you back.”

Will groaned as his body was continuously tugged forward, with his feet and shins dragon behind him. His arm was resting on someone’s shoulder; a shoulder that kept him upright when all he wanted to do was collapse and let the darkness take him. He hated that shoulder. He wanted to sleep. 

But whispers of encouragement and comfort kept Will from pushing away. _It’s okay,_ they said. _Shh. Will. Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay._

_Let’s get you back._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, is that encephalitis, I see? 
> 
> Sorry it's been a long time hahaha, anyways, how's everyone? 
> 
> Thank you for all the Kudos and Comments that y'all sent me! They really kept me going back to the story whenever my motivation started to die! Honestly though, thank you! 
> 
> Yeah. So, general stuff about the story. It's gonna be a slow-ish burn relationship going on between Will and Hannibal but I don't think this fic is gonna extend past twenty chapters. We'll see lol. As you can see it's diverging quite a bit for SeniorPotato's original doujinshi, but I'll do my best to meld in elements to it! Link is in the previous chapter, but it's gone up to almost sixty chapters so definitely, ABSOLUTELY, take a look! It'll be way worth it!
> 
> Til next time y'all!


	5. Patience and Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's back in the house, and nothing's okay (And it's all Hannibal's fault).

 

Will Graham's world returned to him in pulses. Pulses of light. Of heat, sound, and pain. Pulses that stabbed at him like hair thin needles, piercing through every pore of his skin and wiggling into his eyes. They slithered into canals of his ears, exploding once they touched his brain.

Then they left. And Will was filled with chill, darkness, and ringing static. But only until the next wave swept over him: then the screams were louder, the pain sharper, and the heat hotter. Will wanted to scream - maybe he already was - but the needles were in his throat. And he could only swallow them down.

Over and over again, they stabbed through him. _Light. Darkness. Heat. Cold. Sound. Static._

Until Will couldn't even wonder if he was finally in hell. A tantalizing hell that gave him nothing and pain in equal measure.

Screaming. "Will, you have to stay awake! God, your fever is so high.

Whispering. (Sweet, perfect Will. Sleep now. I will take care of you. I will make sure that you never think of leaving again. )

They encircled him, speaking his name and ushering him to focus.

Focus.

 _Focus_ , Will, _Focus._

Open your eyes. Close your eyes.

And focus on my voice.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Hannibal believed that the mind was a collection of memories – of experiences, thoughts, and emotions that built up the collective existence known as a 'person.' And Hannibal's collection was grand and endless, a palace made up of years of memories, some stronger, darker, and more prevalent than others. Others were hardly noticeable in the shadow of the greater ones; though they were a part of the collection all the same. But, for the last twenty-six years, his collection was made of nothing but darkness. Of nothing but the pipes of the house rattling, and tinny conversations beyond the walls and door that that small, ignorant boy had locked him behind.

_William. Will._

Precious child. Foolish child.

~~(How he would love to kill that child).~~

Hannibal remembered Will. He remembered Will _very well._ It was easy to call up the boys cherubic face peaking behind the door from the darkness. So _very_ easy to recall the short seven months Will called Hannibal's home his own. Everything - up to the click of the door locking, Will's 'I'm sorry' echoing against the wall, and the acrid smell of fear that lingered, could be reconstructed in absolute clarity before Hannibal's closed eyes.

Anything after was darkness. Despair at hearing his memories replay the light patters of Will's footsteps leaving home for the last time. Should he ever see Will again, Hannibal thought, he should chain those legs to the foundations. Or simply remove them. Either would be fine if only Will returned.

(It was truly kind of Will to return.)

-0-0-0-0-0-0-  
  
Alana was on the verge of tears. It was past dark, and Will was lying prone on his sitting room's couch. He was shivering and sweating, so much so that the velvet fabric was darkened underneath him. Alana was certain that if the fever didn't kill him then dehydration would. But she didn't know what to do.

She didn't even know how long Will was outside, curled up on the half-frozen ground with Winston the only thing protecting him from the elements. She'd found him two hours ago, and even before she recognized the figure on the ground, her fingers were on 911. She'd thrown her phone on speaker and under her arm while she dragged Will back into his house, waiting for the telltale 'Emergency services, how can I help you?'

She waited, and Will groaned when his shirt rode up the small of his back and skin dragged against gravel.

She waited, and Will whimpered, as the sharp corners of a near-rotten stair case dug underneath his shins.

She waited, and her phone _beeped beeped_ _beeped_ and told her, 'no service available, please try again.'

So she tried again. Same answer. And again. Same answer. Even when Will was thrown upon the couch in his sitting room, half gone with a fever, she kept trying.

Because a phone call was the reason she was here. A call with the ID 'Will Graham' had reached her some time during work, leaving a silent voice mail and a worrying tingle in the back of Alana's mind. But when she'd check when exactly the call had reached her, any record of it was gone.

Still, that she even received the call – if Will was at home when he'd called – it meant that he at least had _one_ phone. A land-line, if not a cell phone, though Alana knew Will didn't cancel his cell service when he moved. So Alana searched, once, thrice, until she couldn't spare any more time looking. There was no phone in Will's house. Even his cell phone was missing.

Now Alana was at a lost; Will was in no state to be moved. All she could do was remember the first aid lessons she'd thankfully refreshed herself on every year. She had a basin of cold water by the couch. Clean, damp towels nestled under Will's neck and atop his forehead. She didn't even bother feeling guilty about the deep water stain on the couch arm any more; she'd apologize when Will was in a better state to accept her apology. With that in mind, she even changed Will's gravel-studded clothing.

Sometimes, Will woke up, fever hazed and confused. When this happened, Alana would murmur to him in a panicked tone, "Will, wake up! You have to stay awake!"

But Will never seemed to listen. His eyes would always look anywhere but her, staring not quite listlessly at the ceiling and walls behind her. Then he'd close his eyes again, and Alana would check his fever (god, it was so high!). She'd leave to freshen the cloths and refill the cold water basin, and always, Will's eyes would be half open again, but never fully conscious.

But always, Will could never look right at her.

(Only at the shadow on the walls.)

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Will was a curious child when he'd first to come to the house. Small, with eyes of sky-blue wonder that never stopped in a single place for too long. They seemed to understand things – people – in only a single glance, so they never lingered longer than they needed to. Hannibal was fascinated by those eyes. He'd seen them glow as Will had peeked his head through the door, then retreated with an 'I'm sorry, I forgot to knock!"

(They reminded him of a little girl from so long ago.)

But those eyes changed. Their blue was the same, but the wonder that was once reflected in those eyes was dead. They were eyes that saw nightmares just under the water's surface and feared that the darkness would break through. That fear, however, was just as sweetly sour and acrid as Hannibal remembered. The same scent that lingered behind the inside surface of the door from so long ago hung over Will like a woman's funeral veil. And Hannibal drunk it in, savouring the scent of one long believed lost.

He almost forgot the darkness in that moment (but he never forgot the hunger).

And oh, the click of that lock! How wondrous it was, that the sound that marked his last memory of light would also be his first. It was a shame, however, in his starved state of twenty-six years – weakened by solitude – Will could no longer see him. He could hardly maintain himself outside of the walls at night as a shadow, let alone a corporeal form.

But Hannibal was patient.

And the scent of Will's fear was enough to sustain him. The fear was more pungent, more delicious, when Will slept. He could see into them in the twitch of Will's eyes. How panicked they were even when Will believed that he was in safe slumber. And Hannibal would bend over as Will slept, drinking in that scent. Whispering in Will's ears of stories and times they shared together.

 _Remember Will?_ When I smothered that horrid woman in her sleep for you?

 _Remember Will?_ When I pushed that rude boy down the stairs for you?

 _Remember Will?_ When I peeled that disgusting man open for you?

_Do you remember?_

Will did not. He would wake up, mumbling of an Abigail, or a Garrett Jacob Hobbs, or a Budge.

_But Hannibal was patient._

He could wait, though of course he couldn't resist speeding things up a bit. Just _couldn't_ resist looming over Will as he slept, reaching his shadow into the man's nose, mouth, and ears – into his head. There was a little note of fever there, at the back of Will's brain, Hannibal found. Insignificant: it would fade in less than three days time if Hannibal had left it alone. But what would a fevered brain, Hannibal wondered, do to an already fevered mind? Especially for his dear, fearful Will?

So Hannibal scooped it up, and brought it to the surface.

The results were wondrous. The fever accented the shadows behind Will's eyes so beautifully. And sometimes, Will would be able to see him; though, Hannibal would limit those moments to glimpses, he didn't want Will to fear _him._ At least, not _too_ much. It might drive him to leaving, before Hannibal was strong enough to stop him. Before he could capture that perfect mind in waking and in sleeping so that Will would no longer be able to fathom the thought of leaving again.

(Hannibal would not allow it.)

 _But Hannibal was patient._ He could live on mere glimpses for the moment.

But then, Will tried to leave again.

(And Hannibal did not allow it.)

The woman had returned his boy back where he belonged, after a few strings pulled and more strength used than Hannibal believed he could muster without a meal. He contemplated eating the woman, however polite she was, but the strength he used reverted him to hardly more a shadow at the corner of one's eye once again.  And at present, Will seemed to need attention that he could not give. So he stayed his hand, and resisted the urge to swallow the woman into his shadows.

There would be another time for that.

First, Hannibal needed Will to sleep. He could lessen the fever that he himself had released - not completely needed now that he'd returned Will to the house. But for now his influence was limited to when the man was in slumber. Hannibal would reach back into Will's mind and brain and push the fever back.

And if he left behind a bit of darkness - a bit of himself - circling behind Will's eyes...then it only added to the collection of memories that made up the person called 'Will Graham.'

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Alana almost trembled with happiness when Will finally opened his eyes for more that a minute. She thought, maybe, that Will was getting better. That the time ticking into the unholy hours of morning with her constant refreshing of the cold cloths, and forcing water and aspirin down his throat, _did_ something. But Will opened his eyes, looked at her, and laughed. A trembling, childish choke as he looked above her head.

"Alana? What? Why--" he began. And Alana leaned forward, murmuring, _yes, Will, it's me, you're going to be alright. We're going to get you to a hospital when you're a little better._

"--are you wearing those weird antlers on your head?"

Alana's heart dropped, and Will's eyes unfocused. Then he blinked, and he was back to staring at the top of her head. Alana had to place her palm on the crown of her head and giving it a rub just to assure her that yes, there was nothing there. Her confidence faltered in the face of Will's determination - his belief - that Alana had suddenly grown antlers.

"There's nothing there, Will," Alana murmured. And Will tilted his head a bit to the side; Alana almost had to catch it from falling off the couch arm.

"There is!" Will insisted. "Don't lie--oh." He faltered. "They're behind you."

Alana felt a shiver run up her arms as Will's eyes seemed to follow something moving behind her. She peered over her shoulder. But of course, nothing was there. When she returned her attention to Will, his gaze had gone off to the side. Again, they were unfocused. They dilated a bit, and Will pressed his head down into the couch rest, as if something was looming closer and closer towards him.  

"Hello." Will said. He was not looking at Alana.

And Alana refreshed the cloths one more time, as if it could help against delirium. As she did so, she asked: "Will? We should get you to the hospital soon. Are you well enough to stand?"

Will didn't pay her mind.

"Hello," he said again. "I'm Will."

"Will, there's nothing there," Alana tried.

"Oh," Will muttered. "You already know that?"

"Will there's nothing there," Alana tried again.

This time Will turned his head back to the woman. "Alana," he acknowledged. "This is Hannibal."

"Will, there's --"

"He says he's my friend. He says that I should sleep now."

Alana swallowed a little bile down her throat. She changed the cloth on Will's forehead, even though it was much to soon for it. "I'm sure that's kind of him, Will," she started. "But we need to get you to the hospital. I think we should leave soon, if you're starting to feel better."

Will's eyes rolled away from Alana, and they stared at the blank wall. "Hannibal says I can't. "

"I don't think Hannibal understands the situation right now, Will," answered Alana. But Will's eyes remained solid on the wall.

"Hannibal says that..."

Alana interjected, a little too sharply. "I don't care what Hannibal says, Will! We need to get you help." She caught her tone, hesitating with an "I'm sorry, Will, I didn't mean to sound--"

Will's eyes rolled back to her. His face was blank. "He says that you're being rather rude, Alana. It's shame because you've been so kind up to now."

He said this so succinctly, staring straight at her with full eye contact. His pupils narrowed in the next moment, his pupils hardly visible. Then they widened again, leaving only a thin ring of blue. It was as though someone shined a light into his eyes then closed it just as quick. But, other than the room light overhead, there was no source of stimuli outside the fever to have caused his pupils contract then dilate like that. Alana thought she saw a reflection of a man in Will's pupils, but before she could note any discernible features, it was replaced by her own reflection. She chalked it up to exhaustion and swallowed.  "Will, I'm sorry, but we--"

Alana didn't bother to finish her sentence. All lucidity began to drain away from Will's face - though Alana questioned if it had ever been there - and he blinked slowly. Slowly and slower until his eyes closed shut completely.

They didn't open again.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh so Hannibal has metaphysical powers. Maybe.  
> \---  
> Hi, guys. I am sorry. So very very sorry. For the late post, and for not answering all your comments! D: Finals and the instability of life caught up to me, plus I got distracted by the Welcome to Night Vale fandom (that I recommend completely and utterly! It is awesome!)
> 
> But thank you guys all for the kudos and comments! I read every one of them! And I'll definitely answer all of them from here on out. 
> 
> Next up, 
> 
> Will dreams of his childhood. 
> 
> P.S. Please read the doujinshi that this fanfic of a fanwork is based on! It is awesome and amazing and is under the same name by SeniorPotato on deviant art. Also follow me on tumblr, same name as my A03 account! 
> 
> P.S.S. Constructive criticism is always welcome. If anything in the writing or characterization (I'm so sorry, I'm out of practice) pokes at you, let me know! Questions are welcome too! It's appreciated and I will ruminate on them because that's how I improve. 
> 
> Thank you!


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